An Ode to an Old Beauty
by Musing
Summary: Lockhart & Umbridge meet each other at St. Mungo's hospital. The former did not believe that he could fall in love with anyone other than himself... until now. A Proposal.


An Ode to an Old Beauty

My dearest Dolores; sweet, sweet Dolores, how my heart blooms like a flower in the spring, the taste of your glorifying name sweetening my lips with the finest ambrosia of the gods. It only seems as if it were just yesterday that you and I _magically_ collided at the intersection on the second floor of Magical Bugs and Diseases at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Maybe it is because it _was_ yesterday—but that is really beside the point. I knew that when I looked into your eyes, I had drowned into a bottomless ocean; I knew that it was love at first sight; I knew that you were meant for me; I knew that my world would stop without you. You looked dazed as well—or was that confusion?—and I knew that you understood the electrifying connection between us. Of course, how could you _not_ be infatuated by me?—I am of course, part of the Order of Merlin; Third Class Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League; five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile—and of course I knew that at that moment you were also in love with me, irrevocably, most desperately, in love. There you stood, entirely vulnerable and all alone, the world closing in on you, and my vision blurred, so that you were my focus; you were the center of my universe. I became mesmerized, hypnotized by you and your flamboyantly violent pink cardigan— which showed me that our wardrobes would absolutely complement each other, with your ostentatious collection of cardigans, and me with my grandiose sets of robes (my favorite being the periwinkle one, for many people have complimented it, saying that it brought out the light blues of my eyes). I was numb with awe. I grinned inwardly; I guess it had been fate that led me to you, for I came to the second floor to sign autographs and the extended edition of my book, _Magical Me_ to a couple of fans who dropped by (even after I lost my memory, I had many devoted followers)_. _But then, as all intense moments end, leaving one to snap back into reality, my healer took me away, telling me that I was not to go wandering off to random places, leading me to the Fourth Floor to the critically ill of Spell Damage—where, all the female healers exclaimed a couple of days before, I had miraculously recovered from the backfiring memory charm I thought I was so excellent at conjuring—leaving me rushed, and dazed, and rattled all at once. My soul wanted to claw out of my body and rush right into your arms. You just stood there, the sparkling blues of your eyes squinting at me, mumbling underneath your breath—probably reassuring yourself that you just met _the_ famous Gilderoy Lockhart himself in person—and I had expected you to call for my name from the other side of the hospital, but, alas, you did not, for our love was only a blushing, blooming flower from which one would have great expectations with. Seeing you helplessly hobbling on your crutches—really, what were you _thinking_ when you offended those centaurs in the Forbidden Forest?—as you turned around to go to the First Floor, Creature-Induced Injuries—I knew what floor you were on because I easily persuaded the secretary to tell me of your whereabouts (which, she did, not being able to resist my absolutely _charming_ looks)—I was determined then, that I had a life's mission: to give my queen the true love she deserved, nay, _needed_ to live a happy life. To assure that I successfully accomplished this goal of mine, to attain _true love_, I knew I needed to ask you to make you mine—_forever._

I know this love seems scandalous, outrageous, heinous for the population around us, which could affect us both dramatically, with you and your Ministry of Magic position—well, probably not anymore, considering where you are _now_—and me and my excellent talents in the dark arts—well, not anymore either, considering everyone now thinks of me as a "fraud", and thus being here in this place with you—but that should not affect us in any way, for love is a need that must be sacrificed for, no matter what the consequences may result in. You might also argue with me, saying that you are probably at least ten years older—I am only considering the slight wrinkling of your skin, a soft, comforting leather, and the stiffness of your hair, of course—and to that I will say two things. Firstly, it is not entirely your fault; I just look very young for my age, due to proper care of my hair and skin—Witch Esmeralda's hair cream and moisturizing skin lotion are essential for a healthy shine and glow!—and I am willing to look past this, for you look quite dashing—what an understatement of beauty so rare and fine!—for someone of your day and age, someone who does not use many facial products. How lucky am I, the man who was quick enough to realize smartly that you are the spitting image of the perfect woman in her fifties! Secondly, age does not matter in the discussions of love. Love is a beautiful, timeless serenity, older than the moon herself—who is absolutely _no_ comparison to you, for she is made of gravel, but you of fine powder—which means that no matter how old you are—whether you are actually fifty, or perhaps older (sorry, I'm not really that good at guessing ages)—it will not ever matter. You _are_ my love; a timeless, precious, beauty.

I also understand that you now feel ashamed and guilty that you almost killed Harry Potter, since he would have done a great deal to add to my fame and fortune—but to that I forgive you, for how would you know that I was to confess my love to you? Of course, this was an absolutely unpredictable, and a rather surprising move on my behalf; I had thought that my love was only worthy for myself, until that fortunate day where I laid my eyes on you.

Perhaps another doubt is that you will probably look nothing standing next to me in comparison. Dear Dolores, you must know that no matter how many people tell you of the drastic contrast between our physical appearances, I was just _born_ unnaturally handsome. If there was any way I could capture some of my beauty and give it to you, I would, a thousand times over—though in my eyes, you look absolutely beautiful, of course—but you must realize; everyone is jealous; the witches are jealous that I, Gilderoy Lockhart, am absolutely in love with you, and the wizards—young _and_ old—are envious of you, and your glory—and of course, again, my good looks.

Now that I have gone over the most possible insecurities you might be feeling as of this moment, I want to reassure you by proving to you that I am _the one_. Everyone has a soul mate, somewhere, out there, and I believe that by laying my eyes on your magnificent face yesterday, I realized you were my true one. How do I convince you of that? I cannot explain the utter sense of being in a completely different world when I look into your eyes, and I am sure, with the scrutiny I receive in return that you feel the same way. I will love you forever and beyond and never leave your side for the rest of your life—which unfortunately is a short time; oh how I wish I met you earlier in your life; fate works in such strange ways—and will keep you emotionally and financially stable. I have sold millions of copies of my bestselling books, and as soon as we get out of here—fairly soon, I hope?—I will buy you whatever your heart desires.

I also have many connections—being the most _renowned_ wizarding author in England—and I can get you into the ministry; if that does not work, I will conjure the memory charm to anyone who gets in my way, even if it means every ministry official's mind scattered into oblivion. This is the minimal price I am willing to pay to be with you; I can do this, and more. My love for you will not be quenched until you are completely and utterly satisfied with everything.

Despite my reputation for being untrustworthy—especially quite notable for my successful results in conjuring the memory spell on many individuals—I swear on my life that I would never do anything of the sort to you, for I want you to remember every single moment we spend together, every breath we share, every time our fingers intertwine; you are my everything, and because of this, I offer you my utmost devotion and trust. I would rather die than have you lose your faith in me.

This magnitude of sacrifice is what I am willing to feed our love. And even though we were deported to Azkaban last night due to our past life and previous actions, I believe that this love will help us start all over again. It does not hurt that we are cell mates—does not hurt at all, for all my dreams are coming true (if only we weren't stuck in a jail cell in Azkaban with quite frightening dementors looming the presence of the prison; though of course, I do not fear them; a dementor's kiss is _nothing_ to me; it is quite the thought of your _own_ fear that worries me)—and maybe if we have a fair trial and manage to escape this filthy place—I do not have my skin and hair products!—we can live happily ever after. But the trial may take months, or even _years_ to come! I cannot stand the notion that our spirits will not conjoin in the blessed ritual of matrimony, and therefore, kneeling in front of you, on the repulsively grimy floor—my periwinkle cloak has now been tainted with filth!—I ask you with all the love I contain within myself, will you marry me?—(perhaps one of the dementors can marry us, and I'm sure the death eaters would be _absolutely_ delighted at the notion of a wedding, especially the one of you and I!) 


End file.
